Shadow Vista

By Charles Colyott and Mark Steensland

The Shadow Vista subdivision ran out of money over a year ago. Now surrounded by rusting fence and patrolled by guards from Tin Star Security Service, the under-construction homes do little more than gather dust and spiderwebs.

 

But they are not alone. A killer in gray coveralls and a red ski mask has made it their own private cemetery, turning backyard benches into tombs and patios into slabs covering the bodies of their victims.

 

For part-time student Zachary Frenkel, working swing shift as a Tin Star guard at Shadow Vista was the perfect gig. Until he crosses paths with the killer and plunges into a battle to save himself from being the next victim!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Encyclopocalypse Publications
• Release date: Mar 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215776780

Book preview

- 1 -

COMING SOON! the sign said. Luxury single family dwellings! But the once-bright colors of this enthusiastically optimistic promise had faded and turned to rust along the edges. Not surprisingly, the model homes below the sign had suffered the same fate. What had once felt welcoming, maybe even cozy, was now little more than a collection of dark corners surrounded by chain link fence topped with razor wire and covered in cobwebs. The signs here held promises, too, printed in blood-red ink and mounted every ten feet: WARNING! This area is under 24-hour surveillance. Trespassers will be prosecuted.

Bored teens occasionally dug their way under, on a mission to christen one of the houses, leaving behind the stale stink of gutter weed, empty beer cans, and the occasional used condom. Because many of the houses had not been finished when the subdivision ran out of money, the trespassing teens had ample choices. The new buyer, if one could be found, would have lots of reasons to wonder where the security guards had been.

No teens this night, though.

The light which shone dimly from a hooded lantern in the backyard of a house on Katz Parkway belonged to a figure dressed in heavy gray overalls, black leather gloves, and a red ski mask, now sliding a shovel from the back of a white van parked in the driveway, returning to the lantern, and beginning to dig.

Steadily.

Quietly.

Once the size of the hole met with the digger’s approval, they dropped the shovel and took a utility knife from a pocket in the overalls. The blade flashed as it sliced open a large bag of concrete. Like smoke, the cement powder rose into the air as the digger dumped it into a wheelbarrow. The lantern light broke into shafts around the digger as they added water from plastic jugs and stirred the mixture with the shovel while checking the set time on the empty bag. 20 minutes wasn’t a lot. But enough.

Returning to the van, the digger hauled out what looked like a carpet, wrapped tightly in plastic. The misshapen tube had been secured in several points along its length with duct tape. Using the tape like handles, the digger deadlifted the bundle out of the back of the van, then dragged it by one end. A dark blue tennis shoe tumbled silently from the bundle, catching on the lip of the sidewalk, and tipped into the gutter, unseen.

At the edge of the freshly dug hole, the digger took the utility knife out again, extended the blade, which shone nearly white in the moonlight, and slashed open the plastic sheeting. The blade not only opened the plastic, but the fleshy cheek of the man inside, snapping him from blissful unconsciousness to wild, panicked fear in an instant. His eyes rolled nonsensically in his head, so wide that they looked like they might break free and roll away.

Smiling, the digger drew the utility razor down the man’s other cheek to see if his eyes could possibly widen any farther.

Not really, it turned out.

The digger sighed with disappointment. Then, from the ground near the lantern, they picked up a small pillow—the kind of thing a traveler would pack for a long flight—and placed it carefully in the hole. With considerably less care, the digger shoved the bound man into the hole with one booted foot.

The man was trying to scream, that much was obvious from the veins standing out on his forehead and the bulging cords in his throat. There was a rubber ball gag in his mouth, though, and, on top of that, a silvery rectangle of duct tape. He barely made any sound at all.

To scream—or to attempt to scream—that part was ex-hausting, clearly, and after half a minute, the man was pitifully trying to suck as much air as possible through his nose (and blowing snot bubbles in the process).

Crouching beside him, the digger patted the man’s cheek gently with leather-clad fingers, then picked up a trowel from the nearby tool box, dipped it into the concrete, and smeared a thick, gray X over each of the man’s eyes. Before the man could blink the grit away, the digger swiped a load of cement into the man’s nostrils. He blew and blew, trying to clear his air passages, but the mix really was thickening very fast.

While the man was thrashing, the digger took a moment to add a bit more water to the wheelbarrow. The man was still flopping like a fish when the digger began to pour concrete over the man’s feet and legs, stopping occasionally to smooth it with the shovel. There was a high whistling coming from the man then, the concrete making his final breaths sing. The digger admired the sound for a moment, then dropped a shovelful of concrete over the man’s face, silencing him forever.

Another few minutes of filling and smoothing, and the new grave looked only like another part of the patio.

Flicking off the lantern, the shadows rolled in like nothing had happened there at all.

- 2 -

Zachary Frenkel pulled onto the freeway, the windows of his Camry vibrating from the bass on his stereo. The song was Somebody to Love by Jefferson Airplane, an odd choice for a twenty-something white kid from the suburbs, maybe, but classic rock had always been his jam. He had grown up with his mother’s awesome vinyl collection. Originals of Airplane, the Beatles, Jimi, you name it. Their stupid-ass cats had destroyed the sleeves over time, using the stack of albums as a makeshift scratching post. The music stuck, though, becoming a part of him. And so, as he drove, windows vibrating, he also sang. Loudly, poorly, and out of key, but he sang, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel at the same time.

The music had put him in a good mood. Work would suck, sure, but in that same old predictable way that it always did. The greatest foe a security guard ever faced was boredom, and out at Shadow Vista, that particular foe lurked around every corner.

Glancing into the rearview mirror, he bared his teeth, checking for any stray food particles that might mar his smile. While he did so, he also caught a glimpse of his uniform. That rare blend of paramilitary and macho ‘80s bro. Okay, he thought, maybe that wasn’t really so rare. Tin Star Security, his badge read.

Yes, indeed.

It was Zachary and his co-workers who kept the abandoned development safe from ... what? Homeless people? Stray dogs? Litter? Acid rain? Harsh language? What?

That part didn’t matter. Not to Zachary, anyway. He was taking classes at the local community college in the hopes of getting a degree in criminal justice and becoming a cop. He figured a job as a security guard would look good on his resume. And Tin Star had been kind enough to hire him even though he didn’t have any experience. He found out why quickly enough. The job mostly involved sitting in an office all night and messing around on Facebook.

After almost missing his exit while inspecting himself, he flashed a parental glance at his reflection in the rearview, turned the music down slightly, and paid more attention to the road. He drove past the locked gate at the entryway of the development, the empty streets beyond reminding him, as always, of sets from some old nuclear holocaust movie. Near the rear of the property sat the security trailer, and Zach eagerly drove past Bob’s pickup and Kyle’s Jeep so he could park next to Rebecca’s Civic. He was still whistling the Jefferson Airplane song as he locked his car and ran up the ramp to the trailer, threw open the door, and entered.

Hey, good afternoon everybody. Rebecca. Bob.

His boss, leaning back in his chair and flipping idly through a gun magazine, grunted. Rebecca smiled. It was strictly professional, but Zachary didn’t notice. Mainly because the new blouse she was wearing showed more cleavage than usual. Cleavage that was far more impressive than he had dared to even imagine. And he always thought he had a great imagination.

He walked over to Rebecca’s office, leaned against her desk and said, So ... How’s your day been so far?

You’re early, she said. Again.

He glanced at the clock. 2:33. He didn’t work until 3:00. Crap. Oh ... Yeah. I never know how traffic is going to be, y’know?

Don’t you live like fifteen minutes from here?

Well, yeah, he said, but you should see it sometimes. At rush hour it’s a total nightmare.

Oh.

God, he thought, she was perfect. Long, blonde hair. flawless skin. Big, guileless blue eyes. Long, perfectly muscled legs. Rockin’ curves. She looked like the kind of girl who spent her mornings doing yoga, her afternoons hitting the CrossFit gym, and her evenings learning Taekwondo to fend off all the goons who noticed the rest of the work she’d put in.

Why don’t you use a GPS?

He shrugged and crossed his arms. I don’t know. I’ve never really trusted those things.

Tell me about it, she said and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. The neckline of her top yawned, giving Zachary a glimpse of the most perfect set of breasts he’d ever seen in person. Granted, that wasn’t a super high number or anything, but still. He’d seen a lot of movies, too, and this still topped it all.

Then he realized that Rebecca had caught him looking.

Shiiit.

Hey, he said quickly, is that a new blouse?

She raised one eyebrow. Yes.

I thought so. Looks great, by the way. Where’d you find it?

She smiled hesitantly. Forever 21. At the mall. Why?

Oh, he started, then realized he hadn’t really thought that far ahead. Uh ... well, my mom’s birthday is coming up... His brain screamed for him to stop, but his mouth continued. And I thought, ‘Hey, that would look really great on her.’

Yes, dumbass, he thought. That’s exactly what your crush wants to hear. Because it either means that a) her new top looks like something your mother would wear, or b) you want to check out your mom’s boobs, too.

What a fucking doucher you are.

Rebecca was still smiling, but it was a weird smile now. The kind